


love isn't the bullet but the trigger

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Castiel Bears the Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Prays to Castiel, Episode: s15e09 The Trap, M/M, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Praying Dean Winchester, Praying to Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23668288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: Castiel takes a deep breath and resolutely doesn’t think about how it will be his last.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 70





	love isn't the bullet but the trigger

**Author's Note:**

> _"The Mark didn’t change you. It just made you more of what you already were.”_   
>  _\- God, 11x22 [We Happy Few]_

_“Life is to be lived, not controlled; and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.”_

_\- Ralph Ellison_

* * *

Nobody forces Castiel to get into the box. In fact, every single person he loves tells him not to.

 _We’ll find another way,_ they say. _You don’t have to do this._

 _Yes I do,_ Castiel doesn’t say.

No one stops Castiel from walking through the halls of his home one last time. No one stops Castiel from resting a hand on the beloved car and silently implores her to take care of two brothers. No one stops Castiel.

Castiel slowly climbs familiar metal steps.

The door is blocked; someone stands in his way. He looks at Castiel with wet eyes and gasps a broken _don’t._

 _Dean,_ Castiel doesn’t say.

“Please,” Dean whispers.

“Dean.”

Then, no one stops Castiel from walking through the front door of his home. No one stops Castiel from trekking through the forest and flattening grass beneath his shoes.

No one stops Castiel, but someone follows a few steps behind, footfalls despondent under the sound of wind threading through tree leaves.

Castiel stops in front of the massive hole dug in the ground, rich black displaced soil a small mountain off to one side. Castiel takes a deep breath and resolutely doesn’t think about how it will be his last.

The box sits open in the earth, welcoming its prisoner.

It’s beautiful in a cruel way. Uneven in places, roughly welded together for purpose over design, sigils and symbols carefully carved with a steady hand. It’s beautiful — like a rattlesnake — and built by Dean’s hands and it’s Castiel’s coffin.

 _“Cas,”_ Dean chokes out, nearly a sob.

 _I don’t want to do this,_ Castiel doesn’t say.

Castiel also doesn’t say, _I have to do this._

Instead, Castiel turns around, trying to burn the sight of Dean Winchester into an endlessly sad mind. Memorizes the glittering tears spilling down Dean’s cheeks, the precious emerald of Dean’s eyes, the damp clumpy mess of Dean’s thick eyelashes, the shadow of stubble along Dean’s strong jaw, the slight tremble shaking Dean’s lips.

Castiel smiles.

He doesn’t say goodbye.

**0001**

The air trapped in the box with Castiel loses its usefulness within mere minutes, replaced by exhaled carbon dioxide as the oxygen is greedily gobbled by the cells in Castiel’s body.

Breathing or having a heartbeat is never a necessity for Castiel. But it had given Castiel a strange sense of comfort, allowing those functions to run their course.

Only now comes the realization, when Castiel has to use grace to freeze a mortal body in time.

Without lungs that constantly take from the surrounding air and a beating heart that expends a body’s energy, would such a creature be considered alive?

It would exist, yes. But for what?

Castiel doesn’t have an answer.

Good thing all Castiel has is time.

**0005**

Four days.

Four days of Castiel staring up at the lid of the box he’s buried in. Days spent silently counting the hours as they pass.

Four days.

_Hey Cas. ‘s been a few days…_

Castiel counts forty seconds, imagines Dean sitting in his bed wrestling with words meant for only Castiel to hear.

_Y’know I’m not the praying type— but I’ll do it, okay? I’ll pray, Cas. To you. I hope you can hear me._

**0016**

Castiel doesn’t wait for Dean’s prayers.

Even though Dean — ever since he’d began — had been consistently and stubbornly devoting time out of each day to praying, Castiel doesn’t wait.

There’s a bud of hope growing, fast and resilient as a weed, and Castiel is struggling to squash its growth. After all, there’s no meaning to wait for something so uncertain.

Castiel knows he means something to Dean.

Castiel also knows Dean will move on. Because he has to.

That day, Dean doesn’t pray. It’s a first.

Castiel isn’t surprised. But, as the last hours of the night fade with the light of a moon the coffin — and its occupant — will not see, Castiel is overwhelmed by emotion. Enough to steal the breath from his lungs and make his heart skip several beats, had they not been long since still as boulders in his chest. Enough to make Castiel’s grace sing.

Dean’s drinking, and he’s _longing_ for Castiel.

**0037**

Castiel starts to wait for Dean’s prayers.

Once, Castiel had stood by and watched for millennia as the world and humans were created, but now… Patience does not seem to come as easily.

It should alarm Castiel, how quickly the empty days have become tedious. How passively experiencing the flow of time is getting _boring._ It should alarm Casiel, but he doesn’t allow it to — not yet.

Castiel starts to wait for Dean’s prayers; they’re the brightest stars in Castiel’s permanent night sky.

**0041**

_Cas— You got your ears on?_

Of course, Dean.

_Dunno why I keep askin’. Habit, I guess. Be awkward if you couldn’t hear me, wouldn’t it…_

I can hear you just fine.

_Then I’d be some loon talking to himself in the dark._

You’re drinking again, aren’t you, Dean?

_…_

_Ah crap— Motherf—_

Dean? Are you hurt?

_Ahh, son of a bitch._

I wish I could help. Take your pain away.

_...Lotta monsters out there, Cas. We thought it was bad before, but they’re endless now. More violent, too. But job’s a job, y’know?_

_Me n Sammy ganked a whole nest of vamps today. Cut it real close. Could really use ya here, man; wouldn’t be so bad waking up every morning without feelin’ like we just went a couple dozen rounds ‘gainst a brick wall._

Dean…

_You ain’t hanging around just for that though, I mean, we’ve got Advil. I’d rather have you, even without the fancy angel mojo. Always liked you better when there’s no stick up your ass, ‘nyway._

_…_

_Gotta be the meds— got me spewing crap…_

I wish I could help, Dean.

_You wanna know somethin’, Cas?_

_…_

_...takin’ everything in me not to grab a shovel._

**0079**

He starts losing time. It’s only a few seconds every few days, but Castiel had been expecting it for quite some time. Ancient forces nearly as strong as God himself have a price, after all, and this one demands freshly spilled blood. Even Castiel can only resist for so long.

Castiel curls the fingers of his left hand into a fist. Pressing his teeth together until a muscle in his jaw jumps, he digs his blunt nails into his palm.

Castiel pushes until skin breaks and blood runs over the sides of his hand.

The wounds heal quickly; Castiel knows he’ll have to pry them open again and again, all in hopes of temporarily satisfying the curse he’d inflicted on himself.

Such a little offering of appeasement will soon be insufficient. Something starving for bottomless oceans simply cannot remain satiated with a tiny puddle.

For now, Castiel bleeds every once in a while and clings to the voice in his head.

**0155**

_Heya, Cas._

Hello, Dean.

_Finished that ghost hunt I told ya about. Been a while since we’ve wrapped one without a scratch; Sammy’s already off in dreamland—_

For a moment, Castiel could almost see it: the Winchesters at another dreary motel, questionable fashion choice of a pattern on the walls. Dean would be lying on his back, staring up at the blank ceiling, fond chuckle spilling rich and warm from between his lips. Sam would be on his side clutching a pillow, facing Dean with his back to the single window. Their combined handful of duffles would be strewn all over the floor but deliberately within arm’s reach of either bed, handguns tucked under their pillows for easy access.

_—chainsawin’ away, I swear one day I’ll record evidence and show it to the kid._

Sleep is essential, Dean.

_Would get you to tell me a story, but I can’t hear you…_

_So how ‘bout I tell you one, Cas?_

Please do.

_There’s this one time I got Sammy with that prank…_

**0197**

Castiel wonders.

He wonders if Sam and Dean are doing well. If Sam’s hair has grown even longer, if Dean still halfheartedly complains over its length. Castiel wonders if the Winchesters are sleeping well and resting sufficiently between hunts.

Castiel hopes Sam and Dean are well.

He holds onto Dean’s little stories of countless hunts and long drives, sleepless nights and bloody wounds, good burgers and descriptions of all kinds of people.

Castiel holds Dean’s words to his unmoving heart, holds on with the desperation of a man drowning.

He wonders if this is what drowning feels like.

**0282**

_‘s stupid hot today, Cas. Think you would like it— You don’t have to worry about sweating and all that._

It sounds wonderful.

_Sammy’s takin’ his damn time… Sky’s so blue, Cas. No clouds at all._

He tries to imagine a pale blue sky stretching above him. He tries to imagine bright sunbeams caressing his face.

_All wrong; still ain’t blue like your eyes._

My eyes?

_Y’know, sometimes I think about that day. Heh, I stabbed you in the chest, and you just— just kept on going, like nothin’ would ever bother you._

_I ever tell ya how shocked I was? You probably felt it… Some guy—_

Holy tax accountant, he remembers hearing. He’d said it was just a vessel.

_—walking through all the sigils and wardings me n Bobby knew and then some… So friggin dramatic, with your voice and wings—_

He remembers blowing out every single light bulb in the old barn, shards raining down like snow; perhaps it had been a tad excessive. He’d met jewel green eyes, wide with awe, and been proud of how well he’d rebuilt the body housing such a bright soul.

_Ah, Sam’s finally done. I’ll talk to ya later, Cas._

I’ll be here.

**0615**

Time starts to slip between his fingers, fine grains of sand he could never hope to keep.

Instead, he holds onto the voice in his head.

**077?**

_Hey, Cas._

_…_

_Hang tight, okay? We’ll find a way. I promise we’ll find a way._

_I’ll keep prayin’ to you, just hang on. Please, Castiel._

_…_

_You’re not goin’ anywhere, alright? And neither am I. We gotta hold on. Have faith, right?_

_…_

_We’re gonna fix this. I swear._

**10??**

The voice that visits him is not the one he’s been waiting for.

It’s faint, as if someone’s speaking from a distance. But the words are clear.

_Uh. Hi, Cas._

_I know you’d rather hear from Dean, but he can’t pray to you today, sorry._

Did he drink too much again?

_The idiot did something really stupid — that’s actually perfectly on brand for him, isn’t it — and got knocked out. Ah, don’t worry, he’s fine! Just sleeping it off._

Oh.

_…I think that’s it. Hope you’re hearing this; I know it’s always better with Dean._

_…_

_Okay._

_We miss you, Cas._

**1???**

It’s dark. The kind of dark he knows no human would be able to see in.

And he’s far from human, because he can see just fine.

He can see the lines of imperfections on the lid above him, see himself lying in a boxed up space just big enough for him to push his elbows out just a bit before he reaches cold hard steel. The soundless hum of powerful warding vibrates under his skin, an incessant itch he can’t scratch.

It would be easy for him to get out.

 _Would require some effort, yes,_ he muses, careless and distant, thoughtful but cold in the way of someone not caring for consequences.

The shape burning hellfire near the bend of his elbow whispers poison he can’t refuse, tells him _You’re strong, but together, we can get you free. See the blue skies, white clouds, green grass. We can create the world you want._

And he wants, _longs_ for freedom, longs as a bird caged after a life spent in the skies might.

His fingers flex, nails clawing at the scratched metal underneath him. But he stays where he is, staring up at the lid of his coffin.

Because even if the warm voice in his head goes sharp with self hatred and bitter with anger, it’s always soft around a name. It cradles one name in ways hands cannot, keeps it safe.

And he knows, _he is Cas._

He’ll long for freedom. For blood. For open skies, the sun on his face.

But _Cas_ will stay.

**????**

He closes his eyes, and the darkness swallows him whole.


End file.
